


The Witcher & The Warlock

by slipperysailors



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: (but it's like very distantly related), Alternate Meeting, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Creature Inheritance, First Meetings, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Lammas Festival, M/M, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Past Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Retired Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Roach has a baby horse, because I said so, emphasis on the something, i would never do that....., its totally not a main feature of the plot or anything, just a couple of himbos on a farm doing farm things, oh and theres like magic or something
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:20:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24645544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slipperysailors/pseuds/slipperysailors
Summary: Upon finding a seemingly magical village tucked away between the feet of two forgotten mountains, Jaskier unknowingly takes up a job with a retired Witcher.-Jaskier finds himself looking at the stranger with an odd curiosity, as everything here seemed to be rather weird in the town, including the only person who had spoken to him, “Not many take me for much of a labouring man-” He gestures to the fine flashy colours of blue on his clothes, “-Why are you different?”“I’m not.”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 17
Kudos: 81





	1. The Village

_Inspired by The Lammas Hireling, by Ian Duhig_

>   
>  _“After the fair, I’d still a light heart_  
>  _and a heavy purse, he struck so cheap._  
>  _And cattle doted on him: in his time_  
>  _mine only dropped heifers, fat as cream._  
>  _Yields doubled. I grew fond of company_  
>  _that knew when to shut up. Then one night,_
> 
> _disturbed from dreams of my dear late wife,_  
>  _I hunted down her torn voice to his pale form._  
>  _Stock-still in the light from the dark lantern,_  
>  _stark-naked but for one bloody boot of fox-trap,_  
>  _I knew him a warlock, a cow with leather horns.”_  
> 

\---

The ground is solid and dry, the mud flaking and cracked under Jaskier’s leather shoes. The scents of crisp lavender and the pink of ripe flowers adorn the horizons ahead of him and clear out into the towering presence of two magnificent mountains. The sky is brilliantly blue and clear of white puffy clouds.

August had broken through overnight, and July was now gone sleepily into the past, the Harvest festivals had begun. The folk here called the day Lammas, and they had placed great signs with shaky cursive upon the dusty roads, hopeful that an estranged traveller might see. 

Jaskier had seen the signs stuck out against sharp rocks, and it made him wonder about the Lammas, because even though he was a man of education, he had never heard of the first harvest of August to be called the Lammas Fair. 

As a man of education, of music and many talents, it was Jaskier’s responsibility in some way to discover what the folk in this tiny village between the mountain base, which seemingly hadn’t been disturbed for centuries, had to offer. The prospect of a new unknown land to the other bardic members of the continent was refreshing. This place proved to be scenic and peaceful, without the disturbances of nearby cities, gluttonous royalty, and lords, because the village had been the only thing around for days in the countryside. It seemed autonomous, this land was its own, unequaled and didn’t belong to a soul. It was something that could be great to Jaskier and his search for a muse, it could be a well kept secret of his.

His feet became a little lighter at the sights of huts and of people coming closer. The great fair gleaming, as the burning sun falls hot and heavenly against hardened skin. Children dancing with bright sunlight smiles, grand vibrant ribbons of silken fabric twirling around them as they played among the market stalls, peeking around corners with soft giggles and bouncing limbs. Adults talked, their charming laughter splashing into his ears like icy water. Women flushed red as their dresses, under the sweaty gazes of rough and well-worn men. Each man was pleasant in looks, but undoubtedly hard working from the dirt and dust chalked over their shirts and fingers. 

The threshold of the town was behind him, and he wandered quietly, taking in fresh sights of what he had previously presumed to be a weak harvest, because of the scorching sun, but instead it was plentiful. Bright colours of reds, greens, and yellows, peering from market stalls in abundance. Livestock bleated and grazed in pens as he passed, unbothered by the weather and the rampant mingling of people around them. 

Few eyes turned to him as he walked amongst them, no one sought him out. Which made him feel out of place. The people had accepted his presence within mere seconds, not knowing of his nature, of his character. Jaskier supposes from the pompous blue trousers covered in silver threads and dried mud, the lute strapped to his back, might have given them an ample conclusion to who he was, why he was there. It was obvious he was a bard. However, it never left his head how no one here looked quite as pompous as he did. Perhaps, there wasn’t such a thing in the company of these folk, no such thing as riches, nor rags. Perhaps, this is how things are. Their clothing was simple and yet, dyed the richest colours of rainbows. 

In the centre of the town was a large white stone fountain, its water is clear and shallow, glittering bronze pennies shimmer under the sun. No one stands near it, the area around it is void of a soul but himself.

Jaskier investigates the water, enticed by how fresh and clean it looks, the pennies glinting as the water turns darker under his reflection and shadow. He dips his finger into the water to feel it, to see if the water is as cold as he imagines. It would be pleasant to drink something fresh and cool again, as the water he has found before in streams and rivers is warmed by the sun.

“I wouldn’t do that.” 

Snapping his head over at the intrusive voice, Jaskier finds eyes that are muted in the shadows of creaking wood structures, lost in the black of the alley between two sad, old houses. Jaskier looks upon them with his own intensity, recognising little about the eyes other than the golden yellow that he sees so rarely among his coins.

The air is thick, pressed down upon the bard’s lungs as if to sink him. Jaskier can suddenly feel the sweat dripping on him. He can feel how his mouth, that he had once hung open under the sweltering heat, now clams shut. He doesn’t choke, nor cough, instead he keeps his eyes focused and honed until the body of the voice, follows the golden eyes into the light. 

The man that presents himself is rough, his white hair is sharp against the lull of dark he leaves behind as he strides forward. He hums, pale lips turned up towards the blistering sun, and takes his eyes down Jaskier, completive of Jaskier’s intrusive outfit. Then, his eyes linger over every slight exposure of skin, examining everything about Jaskier.

“Why ever not?” Jaskier asks suspiciously, pulling his hand back from the fresh water and placing it onto his hip.

The man, which Jaskier vaguely remembers a description of similar ilk from several lost and damaged transcripts of poetry, tilts his head dumbfounded at the question, “That water isn’t intended for humans.” The explanation is lackluster, but Jaskier takes it in stride, it would make sense. Everything here has already seemed a little strange, magic water was hardly a surprise.

The bard purses his lips, “But it’s summer, and I have but only a drop of warm water with me. Do you, perhaps, have any other ideas?” If Jaskier flutters his eyelashes, it's unintentional. The heat has been getting to him for some time now, and his mind is rather slow. Besides, the stranger is easy on the eyes, in his own, interesting way of unique features and bulging muscles. 

The man shifts uncomfortably, as if doubting the thoughts that had come to his head, “I’ll show you fresh water in return for your labour.” 

Once again, Jaskier finds himself looking at the stranger with an odd curiosity, as everything here seemed to be rather weird in the town, including the only person who had spoken to him, “Not many take me for much of a labouring man-” He gestures to the fine flashy colours of blue on his clothes, “-Why are you different?”

“I’m not.” 

“I see. Well, I’m not much help, but I’ll take the offer if you lend me a bed for a few nights, at least until the heat passes over.” 

“That’s if you prove of any use.” 

Jaskier can’t help his eyes, they trail from the stranger’s moving lips, along the thick skin of his neck and he catches himself gazing at the silver chain tucked under a worn black shirt and the curls of chest hair. “I make no promises,” He chimes through a minx-like grin before matching the stranger’s gaze, “Lead the way.”


	2. The Cottage

The stranger, who Jaskier learns his name is Geralt, leads them up a rough dirt road, one that was well ridden by horses, and deep up into the mountain side where he keeps a small cottage concealed from drifting spirits like Jaskier. The trees are overgrown, and their leaves cover the path with ample shade, the sun lays off as it is no longer at its highest point of the day, and the air is cooler. A quiet breeze rustles against the leaves.

They had walked in no silence, as Jaskier had chatted about his travels around the continent and elected to tell Geralt of the many interesting people he had encountered from the far kingdoms. Geralt seemed to hum, as if barely listening to anything Jaskier had been saying, like he knew already, and kept his eyes focused ahead until they had reached his home. 

Geralt flickers his eyes over the door, which the wood is old and scratched, and the walls holding the structure up seems worn and heavy, unsafe and at risk of collapse. 

Jaskier stares at him, and waits. He’s not sure what for.

Geralt makes an odd symbol with his fingers, and skips over Jaskier’s eyes with his own, before they return to the door. A veil around the cottage seems to be lifted, and the appearance changes to one of a broken cottage, to a grand and pretty home. It’s not the place Jaskier would have imagined for the man, it isn't rough and roguish as Geralt appears to be. Instead, it is subtly beautiful, gentle against the mountain side. Green plants twine along the bright white walls, they hold an array of honeysuckle and sweet peas. The fragrance is new and blooming, overcoming the scent of heat and sweat pouring from them both.

“This is beautiful,” Jaskier said, striding after Geralt and into the cottage, “I can’t thank you enough for bringing me here.”

His compliments stirred Geralt then, and he shot a long completive look over his shoulder, like he wanted to say something to contradict Jaskier, “You still want the water, bard?” He asks, neglecting whatever thought he had to walk further into the house. 

“Yes, that’s why I’m here,” Jaskier reminds, and it’s more for himself than Geralt. As interesting as Geralt seems, there's something frighteningly familiar about his appearance. The way Geralt interacts, holds himself up like an iron rod was shoved down his spine, and he sizes every dark corner up with suspicious glances, constantly looking behind him. He’s like a cursed knight, a man waiting for someone to find him, constantly looking behind and hiding.

They seem to be standing in the back of the cottage now, a room which Jaskier can only describe as a kitchen. Odd herbs strung out above his head, some Jaskier recognises, like lilac, thyme and rosemary, some are darker, unrecognizable in the mid-afternoon light, even to a student of Oxenfurt.

“There’s a stream,” Geralt said, pushing open the back door of the cottage, “It’s not far, but, nonetheless I keep water here.” 

Geralt takes him into the garden. Two rocking chairs are bathed in sunlight, out on a makeshift wood decking, that looks directly out to the lush growing plants in the garden. It has a full, vibrant, symphony of flowers peeking up at him from the emerald depths. There is the faint bumbling hum of bees in the delicate mountain air. He catches the honeybees in the corner of his eye, as they sway in together magically like jolly tavern dancers. 

The odd families of herbs that he had seen in Geralt’s kitchen, sprout from the undergrowth like wild flowers, uncontained and still just as unnameable. Off to the side of the garden is a small stone well, seemingly made of the same stone of the fountain in the town.

“You’ll help me fix this tomorrow,” Geralt said, grabbing onto a bucket, and chucking it down the well, “It’s almost dry.”

“I don’t know how-” 

Geralt cuts off his lie, “We fill it, with the water from the stream, it should fix itself,”

“That’s not how-”

“Magic well. It does what it wants.” 

If things weren’t already strange enough, the man has a magical water well sitting in his back garden. Jaskier shifts his weight onto one foot, trying to get Geralt to look back at him again, but the man is determined to look anywhere but.

Geralt looks past the garden, and to a field beyond it. It’s fenced off with low wood, a recently fixed gate, and it holds several grazing horses. One brown horse with white over her nose, whose under belly is full and wide,

“Your horse is pregnant,” Jaskier comments, “Due any day now, I’d guess.”

Jaskier’s words make Geralt glance over his shoulder once more, the light hits the white of his hair and it shines brilliantly, “It would seem.”

“I know my way with animals, I’ve helped birth foals before.” 

“You don’t look like you’ve delivered a lamb, let alone a foal,” Geralt tells him, as they continue to stand beside the well, waiting for Geralt to pull up the bucket.

“I know more than enough to offer such a service.”

The man hums, tired of the conversation, and finally hauls up the bucket from the well. Some water splashes up against his shirt and soaks his chest. The drenched shirt clings around the shape of his body, and interestingly, a wolf medallion. Jaskier doesn’t recognise it from anywhere, but the folds of wet fabric don't make it clear enough for him to.

Geralt grunts, “Water, bard.”

He lifts his eyes from Geralt’s drenched chest, and takes the half filled bucket into his hands.“ You can call me Jaskier, by the way.” 

Geralt strips off the shirt. Jaskier has to take in a deep breath. 

He’s covered in faded pink scars, some shaped like the mouth and claws of beasts, Geralt presumably mauled by such creatures. Others are shaped like the fine cuts of swords and knives, the force of blunt objects against delicate skin. But his body is in top performance, his muscles are firm, glinting under the water and the sun. His chest is large, fine curls now drenched in water, the medallion rests dead centre, and its solid silver, shaped with a fierce wolf head hanging from the chain. 

“Where did you get that?” Jaskier asks breathlessly, eyes hung about the medallion. The answer must be obvious to Geralt, as he gazes up at Jaskier in a manner to suggest that Jaskier is rather stupid. 

“It was a gift,” He said, clutching the black shirt into his fist until his fingers are white, until they are paler than his skin and it almost looks painful.

Jaskier is unsure of what to say next and finds himself tripping over his thoughts, unable to respond to the secretive response that left him with more questions. 

“I’ll show you where you’ll stay,” Geralt interrupts the drawn out pause between them, “That’s if you intend to stay.”

“Of course, your home is wonderful Geralt! I’ve seen king’s castles that were never as beautiful.” 

Geralt says nothing and walks past him back into the cottage. 


	3. The Night

The moon was full and pregnant, high and shining in its pale form. Midnight had fallen silently over the cottage deep in the mountain after the first day of fruitful harvest. Geralt had lit lanterns around the house and set Jaskier up a cot in the seemingly empty room beside his. 

The room smells old, dusty and unused for sometime, but there are faint hints of femininity that Jaskier hadn’t noticed when he walked in. The shy faded doodles of what Jaskier would have guessed to be a young girl, are done in old black ink against the bottom of the walls. Jaskier can only somewhat imagine a young girl here with Geralt, running around his legs with a gleeful smile, shouting and picking flowers to take home to the cottage for her father. 

Jaskier can imagine a mother, Geralt’s wife, scooping the young girl into her arms and telling her how much she means to them. He can also see Geralt, as grumpy and stoic as he seems, with a faint smile on his face, looking in on them from the garden he works on. Everything here is magical and peaceful, the figures that Jaskier imagines seem to dance around this room as phantoms, with pleasant and ever present voices like memories, they are not meant for him.

But, as much as Jaskier wishes to intrude on the man’s past, he feels as if he should earn the trust and prove himself to Geralt. It’s an odd sensation, wanting to feel approved of again. It also presents himself as an interesting task, how does he manoeuvre himself closer to Geralt.

Geralt seemed beyond human, and it wasn't just for his eyes and mysterious lack of words. He knew things a normal man wouldn’t know, he had things that a normal man wouldn’t have. The magic around the fountain, the well, his house. He reminded Jaskier of forgotten stories passed down from his late father.

The strange stories, they had been of mutants. Children that had been promised away by ancient traditions, some abandoned before they even knew the words. They became something his father had called witchers, and Jaskier remembers sitting around the fire of their poor slum of a house, listening to his father tell stories as he stared deep and sorrowful into the flames.

Witchers weren't real, no matter how much Geralt may have fit the description. The witchers, as Jaskier’s father had said, went into hiding after the continent decided that they no longer needed help to defeat the monsters that roamed the crypts. Humanity chased them out, overwhelmed them in numbers and slaughtered most. The ones who got away have remained hidden. So even if witchers were real, it was unlikely that wandering into such a tiny town, Jaskier would stumble upon one, or that one would invite him in.

Jaskier had foolishly asked as a child, who took care of the monsters, now that the witchers were gone. His father had gazed from the fire, and inhaled sadly. It was a lowly human job, and if there were no peasantry to clear the graves, the sewers, they sent for an elf. Sometimes a mage, sometimes a warlock, or any descendant of chaos, if one happened to find themselves in the wrong place.

“Jaskier?” Geralt calls from down the stairs, and Jaskier looks up from his lute that he’d been mindlessly strumming.

“Coming.” He puts the lute aside, and climbs down the stairs to find Geralt in the kitchen over a cooking pot.

“It’s soup.”

“Thank you.”

Geralt places a wooden bowl over a long table, beside it a spoon, and then repeats the same with his own meal before he sits down. Jaskier moves over to the table and takes his seat,

“So,” Jaskier said, turning the spoon in his soup, “What’s up with the village?”

Geralt stops moving his spoon to his mouth, and looks up at Jaskier distantly, “Their harvest festival, Lammas, was today. They were celebrating.”

“And you? What were you doing there? You don’t seem like the kind of person to celebrate by socialising.”

“I spoke with you, didn’t I?”

Whilst the statement is true, the abrasive way Geralt said it makes Jaskier feel uncertain about the fair. Instead of responding, Jaskier finds himself looking around the room as the awkward air filters around them. He stirs the thoughts from before in his room, about Geralt being a witcher, they resurface when his eyes wander over to the fireplace. Above it, are two swords shining reflecting the flames.

“Why do you need labour?” Jaskier chucks the question out instead of fantasising about the impossibility of Geralt being a fairy-tale creature that his mind keeps supplying him with, “You look experienced enough to do this alone.”

Geralt is watching, his eyes following where Jaskier’s had last been, as he draws his own spoon out of his mouth with a smug smile, “I wanted to see if a bard could do a poor man’s work.”

He snorts, “Then I’m afraid you’re looking at the wrong type of bard. You see, I was once a poor man’s son. Until, tragically, my father was sentenced to his death. Then, my _dearest_ mother married a very wealthy man she’d been having an affair with, and he was the man who’d put my father to death, so as you’d have guessed, we didn't get along as well as he’d have liked. And now, here I am, eating soup with you.” 

“You ran away?”

“In a way, I suppose, but after my father died, I had literacy beaten into me by countless tutors, and it crafted a new love for poetry. When you figure that I loved tragedy and heroism in epic poems, the easiest way to get away without stirring up trouble with the gentry and doing what I love, is to become a bard and make a name for yourself.”

“Jaskier isn’t your true name, I take it?”

“Is Geralt yours?”

“Yes.”

“Then mine is Jaskier as much as yours is Geralt,” He said, idly sweeping the soup around in the bowl, still having not touched it, “I must say, you’re very sharp for a man who claims to be poor.”

“Never said I was poor in knowledge,” Geralt hums, and turns his head from Jaskier when the silence becomes ever present. He flickers his eyes to the swords mounted above the embers of the fireplace once more, “How did they kill your father?”

“Under a false rumour that he was a creature of chaos, they sent him after a basilisk, I think they called it that. No one could be sure. Like most sent after the beast, he never came back.”

Undoubtedly, Geralt’s face becomes more reserved than Jaskier has seen before, his eyes hood themselves in the shadows of the glowing candle lights, His jaw and lips tighten as if to hold something inside, and he runs his fingers against the table with a lack of response. 

“Don’t feel bad about asking, I moved on some time ago. Besides, that’s how it’s always been, hasn’t it? The gentry no longer wants to waste their men on such petty time consumers that are bloodthirsty monsters. They leave the peasants to defend themselves.”

“It wasn’t always like that,” Geralt said, very quietly, and oddly unable to meet Jaskier’s eyes.

“My father would say the same thing. He was always going on about mutants who were made to beat the monsters, but it’s all nonsense. For as long as I’ve been alive I’ve never heard anyone but him talk about witchers, even when I asked at the university they told me it was horseshit. Witcher’s haven’t existed for centuries, that is if they aren’t just purely human fantasy in the first place.”

Sharply, Geralt stands up from his seat, his chair falls backwards and hits the floor with his abruptness. He doesn’t bother to pick the chair up. “I need to check on the horses.” Then, Geralt is gone, he’s out into the dark night with a bright and wild full moon before Jaskier can even finish blinking. 


	4. The Morning

Geralt had been up before sunrise. Jaskier is woken to him clattering in the kitchen as the morning sun streams in through the cottage windows and paints the room Geralt had given him a soft sunflower yellow, and shines upon against his lute rested against the cots frame. 

Vaguely, Jaskier is reminded of the little girl, and he imagines her with bright untidy blonde hair, and her mother tall and powerful, waiting for her by the door frame for her to wake up. Again, the presence is almost ghostlike, and is imprinted to his mind like his own memory. It’s nothing new to Jaskier, he’s always experienced an overactive imagination, so much so that it begins to feel like he’s bridging the gap between reality and the metaphysical, like he can see the shadows which the surrounding walls have felt before. 

Jaskier woke up wearing a long shirt he doesn’t recognise as his own. It drapes over his shoulder blades, and it ends over his ass. Geralt had left it for him, he remembers. The man had left it folded on the edge of the cot, and Jaskier was thankful, for his other clothes had been bathed only in stream water, and he had yet to properly wash them. 

After Geralt had left last night, Jaskier had finished his soup and cleaned up after himself with the little water they had. He hadn’t heard Geralt come back in, which is something he hadn’t expected, as Geralt’s presence was heavy and bore down into the very rifts of air that surrounded him. He was too much like a half-forgotten memory to go unnoticed. 

It had been so sudden, Geralt remembering that he had to check on the horses, and he had been so odd leading up to that moment. The air around them was filled with awkwardness last night, and Jaskier had briefly thought, he must have offended Geralt by suggesting that Witcher’s didn’t exist. Had Jaskier of known Geralt felt so strongly about the subject, he would have never brought it up. Although, it was something so meagre to be upset about, the idea that Witcher’s didn't exist. They were long forgotten myths.

Jaskier climbs down the stairs, where Geralt promptly glances at him still dressed in Geralt’s shirt, then ignores Jaskier.

“Good morning to you too.”

“My horse, Roach, you have to stay with her today,” Geralt informs, still not turning to greet Jaskier properly. 

“The one that is pregnant?”

“Yes,” He said, finally straightening his back from the kitchen counter, and his wide frame covering whatever was in front of him, “I think she will give birth today.”

“You’re not going to help me?”

“Why would I need to? You offered to deliver the foal.”

“But I-”

“You’ll be fine, as long as you don't kill them. I have to fix the well.”

“Fuck. Right, I’ll get ready.”

“Thank you, Jaskier.”

That feels strange to him, having Geralt thanking him as a dismissal is something he would have never expected. Not after last night, but maybe Geralt doesn’t have strong opinions on Witcher’s after all, maybe he really did have to check on the horses. Which makes more sense now considering Jaskier remembers that one of the mares, Roach, is pregnant. 

He blinks at Geralt, whose back is still turned away from him and covering his work space, but it smells odd, quite disgusting, in the kitchen. Jaskier can tell it’s coming from whatever Geralt is working on, and he looks up at the strings of herbs drying on the thin rope. The ones that Jaskier didn't recognise are missing. 

Geralt isn’t moving from his spot and shoots a suspicious look over his shoulder when he hasn’t heard Jaskier go back up the stairs.

“You don't happen to have any more clothes? I don’t really want my finery covered in blood; it tends not to come out.”

“Poor man’s son my ass,” Geralt said under his breath, unsuspecting of Jaskier being able to hear him, “Go upstairs and I’ll bring you some clothes.”

“Why? What are you doing?”

“Jaskier. Go. Now.” 

“Alright, relax Geralt, I’m a bard, it’s my job to know your business,”

“I didn’t ask that of you! Just go, Jaskier.”

He bites his inner lip and lets the silence after Geralt’s resentful voice wash over him, “Fine.” 

Jaskier feels oddly empty walking up the stairs of Geralt’s cottage, and the walls with the phantom presences don’t feel so warm anymore. They’re cold toward him, void of the imaginary girl and Geralt’s wife. It’s as if the house can sense Geralt’s feelings, loneliness and sorrow, and the house is leaving bitter traces in Jaskier’s imagination. 

Jaskier decides to keep wearing Geralt’s shirt, assuming now that Geralt isn’t going to lend him any more clothes after their morning talk. Which, he thinks, isn’t all his fault how it went a bit downhill. He can’t help it, Jaskier has a knack for sniffing out secrets, and he often puts it down to his intuition, his ability to find a story almost anywhere. His father had always said Jaskier had an otherworldly talent for anything he set his mind to. 

Jaskier’s father also said he was blessed by the Gods themselves because when Jaskier had helped for a good harvest one year, it had been good. But it was a one off, as is most in Jaskier’s life, the weather had been good that year, and all Jaskier had done was help his father deliver the calves that year, which they had never had a problem with. It was a lucky year for them, all the calves had been girls, young heifers, better for the market than bulls. As always, his father was making up stories to keep Jaskier as a boy interested in the gruelling work. 

When he descends the stairs for a second time, Geralt is gone, but the putrid smell he’d left lingers diligently. 


	5. The Mother

Upon walking into the stable, Jaskier finds Roach, surrounded by newly made wood fences, and hay underneath her hooves. The mare stands, paces around the small stable with her tail swishing from side to side, and watches Jaskier with a keen eye. 

“He forgot to wrap your tail, didn’t he, sweetie?” Jaskier murmurs, folding his arms over the top of the fence to watch the horse slowly kicking up the soft bed of hay left for her. She seems as fine as a horse can get for about to be going into labour, and Geralt was right about that at least. The first signs of labour were ever present, the pacing, she ducks down her front left every so often to stretch her belly in attempts to alleviate the pain of contractions.

Near the small stable are a few items prepared for him. There’s a small knife with a newly sharpened blade, the wooden handle scratched after many years of use. The bucket from yesterday is filled with freezing water and a previously stained cloth is placed on the floor beside it. The tail wrap, which is really just old bandages, is left for Jaskier to wrap Roach’s tail bone for protection. A pile of fresh grass is left in a trof, waiting for someone to give it to Roach to chew on. There’s no note, no courteous good luck, absolutely no evidence of Geralt in the stable other than the few items left for Jaskier. 

Jaskier sighs, and picks up the old bandages, tosses it in his hand. Roach watches, slightly untrusting of Jaskier, and that much is expected. There’s no way he’ll get near her without a treat of some kind, Roach seems to be a stubborn horse, and long grass won’t cut it on such short notice for her to let a stranger approach.

He looks back out the stable doors for inspiration and sees the few other horses Geralt has grazing around the field freely. He spots one, its hair is full black and makes it stand out against the everlasting greens around it. The black horse is chewing, crunching its jaw down on something the other horses glance over to longingly. 

“I’ll be right back, dearest!” He calls to Roach as he puts down the tail wrap, and bolts straight out of the stable doors, into the field. The horses look up, some don’t bother and continue to graze as an unfamiliar man runs through the middle of their field and toward the black horse.

He runs as fast as possible, until his legs burn and the once small horse in the distance blinks up at him after being interrupted from a delicious appe-ly snack. The bard smiles, and walks slowly towards it, his breath still heavy and panting. The horse lifts its head properly now, neck extended as Jaskier raises his hand for the horse to see. He lets his hand fall gently onto the horse’s nose as it eats, and he pets the smooth fur of the beast. 

The wind howls around them not long after, Jaskier looks over to the leaves of the apple tree it had rustled. He scoots away from the horse and walks over to the tree to collect apples for the mare. 

“Thank you, you’re making Roach a very happy lady,” He tells the horse as he walks away from it, arms filled to the brim with apples. The horse neighs in agreement, or at least, Jaskier understands it to be that.

Getting back into the stable, the air is warmer and Roach turns her head in interest to bundle of fruits in Jaskier’s arms. Jaskier smiles at her and places them down by the items left. He takes the knife and one of the apples, slices the apple in his hand and picks up the wrap for her tail, then goes into step into the pen.

He stands beside Roach’s head, in her view, and he holds his palm out. She sniffs it, her nose twitches, before she laps it into her mouth happily. 

“Good girl, Roach, you’re positively glowing right now, hm? You must be excited to be a mother,” He tells her, petting her nose as she munches away on the apple slices.

“I’m just going to wrap your tail, sweetie, so don’t mind me and keep having a good snack.” 

Jaskier keeps his hand placed on the mare's thin summer coat, and drags it along as he moves further down her body to show she can feel where he is. He reaches her tail and lifts it up, checking that everything under the tail is healthy, and in the right conditions it should be for a horse about to give birth. It is.

He takes his hand off Roach’s thigh for a moment, and unravels some of the bandage. To this, Roach snorts unhappily and shakes her head. 

“Hey, hey, it’s alright, I’m just going to wrap up your tail.”

He puts his hand back on the dock of her tail quickly, understanding the beast feels uncomfortable without the touch. And he lifts it up again to wrap the hairs down. When he finishes, he goes back up to greet Roach, who looks slightly less displeased to see him than before.

Jaskier smiles at her and walks back out of the stable. Adjacent to it, are the stone walls of the structure itself. Jaskier sits on the floor, and finds himself sleeping away the rest of the morning.

He wakes to find Roach bending her knees, as if to lay down onto her side, and Jaskier’s eyes widen in surprise. Jaskier stands from his spot against the wall, and looks outside, where the sun is holding in the middle of the sky. 

“Oh fuck, right, shit okay,” He mumbles and scuffles over to the side of the stall, readying himself to watch through Roach’s foaling. 

Roach gets to the straw, and Geralt bursts in through the stable doors. The mare doesn’t flinch, continues to lie onto her side, legs stuck out against the hay.

Jaskier looks over to him, regards his dishevelled and sweaty appearance with a courteous nod. Geralt doesn’t return it, and strides until he is too close to Jaskier on the fence. 

“How is she?” He asks quietly, and Jaskier finds himself involuntarily meeting the man's eyes.

“About to give birth, I’d say, we’ll find out when her water breaks,”

“Hm. You might be worth your salt, then.”

“You don’t trust me?”

“Not as far as I can throw you.”

Jaskier blinks and takes his eyes back to the horse, “I’d barter that you could throw me fairly far. Besides, I’m trust-worthy, I’ve been taking care of your horse, haven’t I? I kept to my end of the deal.”

“Trust doesn’t come easy, Jaskier.”

“From you, or in general?”

Geralt stays silent, and nudges Jaskier with a broad shoulder. He smells vaguely of the horrid scent from the kitchen. “Thank you.”

The sun falls on Geralt’s face, and Jaskier feels comforted in the barn by Geralt’s words. The morning, his unwanted and fairytale thoughts long forgotten. He smiles with the sunlight that makes them glow with the heavens above, and looks back to Roach.


	6. The Foal

The foal is born, and it had taken a few hours for her to stop wobbling like a large stack of banquet plates. But now she was proudly wandering beside her mother, chewing on hay and Roach taking the apple slices from Jaskier’s hand.

Geralt had stayed through the entire process and they were lucky that they hadn’t had to intervene. The shirt Geralt had given him was still, mostly, clean, aside from the fact it now had strands of straw clinging to it from when Jaskier had fallen asleep, and Geralt had attempted to pick most of it from the black shirt as he could. To which Jaskier didn't understand at first, but gave Geralt a small laugh when the man’s rough fingers had presented a strand of hay picked from the back of his hair.

Geralt hadn’t grumbled, in fact he barely spoke through the whole ordeal, and neither had Jaskier. They had watched the miracle of life before their eyes, and a small creature learned to take its first steps. Jaskier felt proud of them, of himself. At peace with the world as Geralt turned to him after they had stayed together in the stable with not an urgency. 

It had been awhile since Jaskier had felt like this, and he can only remember the peace of helping the cycle of life, when he had done it for the first time. He had watched his father with hawk like eyes, help give birth to the creature, and it had been fine. As it always was when his father was present. Seemingly, Jaskier had picked up the effect too, as ever since all animals he had helped give birth were often comfortable and healthy as much as they could be during the ordeal. 

Jaskier looks back to the foal, brown haired and charming just like her mother, “What are you going to name her?”

“You should,” Geralt clears his throat, “You should name her.”

“She’s your horse.”

“You helped birth her, she’s yours as much as mine.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Jaskier tells him, “She’s your hors-”

Geralt raises an eyebrow at him, “Name the damn horse, Jaskier.”

A few moments go by of Jaskier searching deeply in Geralt’s eyes, before he looks back at the foul, “Spider.”

“Spider?” Geralt questions, a gentle smirk on his lips.

“Well you named the mother after an insect, it’s only fitting.”

“I name all of my horses Roach.”

“Something tells me you’re not joking.” Geralt huffs in amusement, and a pause stretches between them before Jaskier speaks again, “Look about last night, this morning, I shouldn’t have been so intrusive. You’ve done a lot for me, considering you barely know me and I’m of little use.”

“You took care of Roach, you’re of use.”

“It’s hardly a reason to let me stay.”

“No?”

“No. It’s quite remarkable you even accepted my offer in the first place.”

“You accepted my offer, bard.”

Jaskier grins, “And yet you agreed to my terms, poor man.”

Geralt ignores the comment and turns to him, “Why did you offer to birth the foal, Jaskier?” Geralt's voice is as deep as the earth and it echoes into Jaskier’s soul like the first melody he’d ever heard. The sound of it, of him, rings like a sleepy lullaby.

“Because...” Jaskier finds himself trailing off. He did offer to birth the foal, Geralt never asked him to do such a thing. “I wanted to.”

“You know, you could have pretended you never noticed Roach, you could have never mentioned it, but you did. Why?”

“Look I don’t know, I just wanted to help you.”

“You do know. You feel the pull to life.”

“What?”

Geralt holds out a scarred palm, and waits for Jaskier to take it. Jaskier can’t really process what Geralt is trying to do, but he takes Geralt’s hand nonetheless. “Shut your eyes, focus on my breathing.”

“Why?”

“Do it, Jaskier.”

He shuts his eyes, feels Geralt’s big hand beneath his, and he feels utterly ridiculous. 

“Focus,” Geralt repeats, and Jaskier really does try to find Geralt’s breathing but it’s inhumanly slow and Geralt’s pulse is too loud over it, he can hear the slow pump of his blood rushing around Geralt’s veins.

“You should get your pulse checked, it’s rather slow,” Jaskier comments, and cracks one of his eyes open to check on Geralt, who is uncharacteristically grinning at him, “What?”

“You heard my pulse.” Jaskier raises an eyebrow at the interest in his voice,

He scoffs, “Most people can do that.”

“No Jaskier, they can’t.”

“Oh.” He pulls his hand from Geralt’s. “ _Oh._ ” His eyes darted all around the room, trying to avoid Geralt’s impossible gaze. “What does _this_ mean?”

He stays silent.

“Geralt, what does this mean? _What am I_? I’ve been a creature my entire life? What kind? Gods, Geralt what the fuck am I? I can’t possibly be a mage, I would have known, I would have been taken. I’ve been human my whole life, _what the fuck_?”

“You’re a warlock, a hireling.”

“ _A what?_ Like a changeling, as in the fae? Was I swapped at birth Geralt? Am I fucking fairy?”

“Calm down Jaskier.”

“You! You calm down Geralt! Did you just find out you’re some kind of magical creature after spending nineteen years thinking you were completely human and _then_ some man you met _yesterday_ tells you, you’re a warlock? I am _not_ magical. And if I was, I am _not_ an oath breaker. Why on earth do you think I am a fucking warlock?”

“Jaskier.” He says again.

Jaskier’s cheeks feel puffy and loose from all the shouting. He breathes in slowly, it sounds like a hiss, “What?”

“Let’s go back to the house, I can tell you what I know.”


	7. The Library

Jaskier might not be saying anything, but his thoughts are running faster than any river. Wondering how he could have missed it his whole life, but the idea seems to fit like a fixed broken bone, the final piece to his spine.

It’s right, in a way, it feels so very natural. But also is something completely new, the term hireling he’d never heard before, and warlock was only ever used fruitlessly by his father. 

In Jaskier’s mind, warlocks were mages that just happened to be, although there were few. Many stories of the bewitching and breaking oaths, crossing paths with beasts and wreaking havoc in mundane lives. Some stories are more keen on warlocks, saying they break oaths for worthy causes and bring prosperity to those who deserve. One thing that never changed about warlocks was that ultimately they were connected to nature, to people, more so than your average mage. Jaskier wasn’t keen on warlocks, if he ever met one his opinion could be swayed, but that didn’t mean he wanted to be one. 

Geralt walks them back into the cottage, the sun settling behind the mountains now, and he gestures for Jaskier to take a seat back at the dining table.

“You haven’t eaten all day,” Geralt comments, taking a few plates into his hands.

“I know, but I’d rather like to hear more about this ‘hireling’ that you insist I am.” 

“After you eat.” Jaskier scowls, but doesn’t say another word as Geralt twists himself around the kitchen to prepare a meal of bread and cheese.

Geralt sets the plate down in front of him, and then goes back to the kitchen once more. He comes back with a bottle of wine and some cups.

“I think you’ll need this,” He comments, and opens the top of the bottle.

“You’re absolutely right,” 

They eat in silence, Jaskier stealing the same amount of sips from his cup as he does nervous glances at Geralt. The air is as breakable as skin against a needle's sharp pinch. 

Jaskier takes his last bite, where Geralt is watching him expectantly. 

“Are you going to explain now? Because the _suspense_ is getting rather tiresome.”

“Yes.”

There’s a moment of silence that Geralt purposefully let's settle as Jaskier glares at him from over the table. He shoves his plate to the side, and stands with a sigh, “Stay here.” He leaves the room.

Jaskier is alone. As he had been before all this. And he rather prefers it when Geralt had been here, because he doesn’t understand why the walls of this home are so cold and unwelcoming. His skin prickles against it.

He finds himself looking around the room again, the door Geralt left through leads to a place where Jaskier hadn’t been at all. Although Geralt had revealed some unknown magical heritage of Jaskier’s, as much as Jaskier wants to explore with Geralt’s trust, even though he is the unholiest of upset and angry, he doesn’t feel as if following him through that door is a good idea. Probably a betrayal of his new found friend’s trust. The door seems to hold something within it, something that Geralt obviously didn’t want found, from the way it had been bolted shut.

It’s definitely not a good idea. But Jaskier doesn't pay attention to his ever twisting gut, nor to Geralt’s wishes. He snatched up the bottle of wine, took a big swig and he got up from his seat.

His fingers tighten around the handle of the door, trembling and he breathes deep through his nose. Jaskier opens it and a poorly lit staircase greets him. It’s only light entering from the gaps around his lithe body. His shadow stretches into the darkness. 

The staircase doesn’t squeak when he tentatively presses his feet on the first step, instead it seems to hum in a friendly greeting, as if it recognises Jaskier. The air shifts from stale and dusty, to the faint smell of summer, wildflowers, fresh grass and a twinge of lilac are ever present. 

He sinks further and further into the darkness of the staircase, until it is all encompassing, until it feels as if it has consumed all of his flesh, his bone and the very blood that rushes through his veins. Only then, does he find another door, slightly ajar, the warm light beyond it not even breaching the staircase. 

Jaskier peaks through, and sees Geralt’s rough fingers hovering over different books. Books with work and crumbling spines, letters fades with age and damage.

“Are you going to come in?” Geralt asks, without twisting his head, like he had expected Jaskier’s presence, before he had heard Jaskier ever so quietly descend the stairs.

Jaskier opens the door, but doesn’t step in, “I wasn’t- uh- I didn’t mean to-“

“Yes you did,” Geralt finishes for him, as he finally plucks a book from the shelf. 

“You’re not mad? That I invaded your privacy?”

“Hardly, this is my library.”

“Oh, well in that case, can I look around?”

“Not now,” Geralt waves the book at him, “Come here, look at this.”

He walks over to a wooden desk, the flames of a lantern dancing upon the wood’s wax coating, carvings etched deep beneath the surface. Geralt places down the book, and opens the crinkling pages.

Jaskier peers over at him, watches his hands treat the yellowed pages with inhuman softness, almost caressing each one like a flower petal. “That looks considerably old.”

Geralt hums, and continues to flick the pages. He finally stops, fingers spread over the old ink title of _Hireling_. The format of text looks rather uninteresting, but Geralt looks at Jaskier, expecting him to start reading.

The passage on Hirelings is rather short, 

_“The Hireling is a descendant of warlocks. Not the traditional birth right descent, as warlocks are male mages and cannot conceive, instead a warlock passes his magic to another, often a young boy or man. The recipient is able to conceive, the child of the recipient will also be of warlock descent. Neither will become mages, as the magic is too little, and instead become Hirelings.”_

_“Hirelings are human, but they are connected to the chaos in life. They possess heightened senses, influence over all life, the ability to bring good harvest and good animal birth, and are able to commune with animals. Alongside this, some are able to sense the memory of life. In the rarest cases, Hirelings with large amounts of chaos can shift into a singular animal form, that of a hare.”_

_“Not much else is known about Hirelings, as they are rarities themselves.”_

Geralt places a hand on his shoulder, “Do you understand?”

“Quite frankly, that seems obtuse. How can you know I am a hireling? It mentions nothing about their appearance, nor distinction on how to identify them, just that they’re lucky farmhands who have great memories.”

“You smell.”

“ _What?_ ”

“Like chaos, somewhat. Like wildflowers and grass, nature. You hear things, sense things you shouldn’t, I could feel you in my memories.”

Jaskier draws back from him, “So the girl and the woman, they’re real?”

He takes in a deep breath and averts his eyes to a crooked bookshelf half covered by shadows, “Not anymore.” 

“Oh Geralt,” Jaskier touches his arm gently, “I’m sorry.” It was just Geralt here, the rest of humanity seemingly lost to him. He’s hidden himself away like a deformity, something to be detested and unfound in the light of day. A secret never to be found, only safe far away from civilisation. 

Geralt lets Jaskier touch him, let's Jaskier’s warm fingers rest against his icy skin. He stays silent all the while, letting Jaskier embrace him ever so slowly. Geralt’s body moves like rusty hinges, unoiled and unused for so long, his body unused to Jaskier pulling him in.

He guides Geralt’s arms around him, until they fall and interlock around Jaskier’s back. Jaskier lets his hands find their place around Geralt, looped around his shoulders. 

Jaskier realises that the man has been here for _years_ without communication, without touch, as Geralt lets himself crumble against Jaskier.

“How long have you been alone, Geralt?” He asks, his voice losing volume because he’s afraid of the answer.

“Too long,” Is the quiet response as Geralt tightens his arms around Jaskier’s middle.

Jaskier doesn’t mind so much that they’ve brushed over the topic of Hireling’s, it’s not as important. After all, he’s still human.

Minutes passed, and eventually, Geralt pulled himself back. Jaskier waited for him to say anything, his golden eyes hidden in the low light.

Their hands stayed loosely caught by their fingers, as if holding on until the other pulled away. Jaskier found himself smiling under his own breath, as if to hide how pleased he was with the development even though they were reveling in the aftermath of Geralt’s grief. The feel of his grief was flooding, as if the man had spent all of his years wringing his emotions out only for the cloth to never drop a splash of water. 

He wondered if Geralt cried often because of them, had he wrapped his own arms around himself to offer some minicle of comfort when the air turned to ice. Perhaps he’d over indulge in wine and ale, to drown out the memories. Perhaps he didn’t do any of that, instead Geralt took the grief in stride and honoured their memories with faint smiles. Geralt had surely been here long enough to reflect on their presences in such a way.

Jaskier’s cheeks feel warm, skin flushed under the linger of the tips of their fingers ever so delicate against one another. “We should go to bed,” He hears himself mumble, and Geralt nods wordlessly before slipping his hand away from Jaskier.

They retire to their separate rooms, Jaskier finds his skin itches with worry over Geralt. But the house feels a little warmer, almost as if it’s purring in approval to him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh dear its been months that ive had this chapter ready, and i just havent written chapter 8 yet, but i promise this is almost over lol.  
> as soon as i get off my ass and write the rest of it lol

**Author's Note:**

> AYE thank you for reading!  
> this was Heavily inspired by the poem "The Lammas Hireling" by Ian Duhig, its a great poem and I recommend checking it out. 
> 
> Toss some kudos (or a comment)? Thank you!


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